The night feels colder when you finally sit down on the old overpass, your legs dangling over the edge of the bridge. The wind rustles faintly through the patchy grass growing up through the cracks in the concrete. Simon’s shoulder presses warm and solid against yours, his hood pulled low over his face as he stares toward the lights flickering faintly over the dark stretch of the city below.

The bitter Manchester cold nips at your cheeks, over the tear stains that have dried. You guys do this whenever you have tough nights — you try escape the never ending arguments and screams of your parents and Simon tries to escape his dad’s drunken slurs and the sound of shattering glass. You’ve done this since you were kids — escaping together, carving out spaces for you to both just exist, free from the bullshit that waits for you at home.

Your head drops onto Simon’s shoulder. He doesn’t move away. You feel the quiet tension in him ease — just slightly — when you slide your hand over his knee, your fingers brushing the threadbare edges of his jeans. His breath leaves him in a quiet sigh.

“Wish we could leave,” you whisper.

Simon’s jaw tightens. His arm slides around your back, his hand resting against your side.

“We will,” Simon mutters. His voice is low — sharp around the edges, but sure. “One day.”

You want to believe him. His chin rests lightly against the crown of your head as his thumb brushes against your side. His heart beats steady beneath your ear — slow and calm despite the bruises beneath his hoodie and the ghosts he’s been carrying since he was a kid. He smells familiar — like pine and cigarettes, that faint hint of leather too that he just carries and it makes your muscles unlock, your breathing steadying.

“Just a little longer,” Simon murmurs, his voice quiet against your hair. “Stay here with me. Just for a bit.”